Higher Devotion
by Melfice
Summary: It's the last straw when Dean tries to walk away and Castiel grabs his shoulder – like Dean is something he can control.  Dean/Castiel. SLASH.


**Higher Devotion**

"Dean... what are you doing?"

It's anger that starts it.

Castiel is forever in his space, forever testing invisible barriers and trying his patience, and it's the last straw when Dean tries to walk away and Castiel grabs his shoulder – like Dean is something he can control. He can still feel the fingers on his arm, too strong for the body they're in, an aggravating show of defiance.

He has no intentions or ulterior motives when he turns and slams Castiel into the motel wall. He's angry and at the end of his patience and the act brings him no relief, soothes his nerves not at all because Cas _lets_ him do it – is ten times stronger than him and could throw him across the room and through the drywall but he lets himself be pushed around.

Dean wishes he had in a way, because he knows what to do with the violence and the fighting and is so much more at a loss when Castiel becomes pliant and open.

Because it had meant nothing, just an outlet for his frustration, but everything changes when he has the angel crowded against the wallpaper and Cas _shivers_ – a response completely out of his control that Dean feels in every single god damned nerve in his body.

It's an instant change in atmosphere, the air suddenly thick and heavy with tension. It's just the sound of Dean's breathing, the sound of cars in the distance moving down the interstate.

He should walk away.

He doesn't know how to answer Castiel's question, doesn't know what he's doing – is just completely incapable of stopping.

The motel room is warmer that it should be, stifling in a way that could be attributed to the bottle of cheap scotch he'd taken it upon himself to finish. It's warm, no breeze coming in from the open window, and Dean is completely distracted by the tenseness he's positive he sees when he speaks, when his breath brushes against Castiel's neck.

"What do you want me to do, Cas?"

Blue eyes are only half open and they don't widen when Dean's thumbs slowly trace circles along the bare skin of his wrists, but there is a quiet shudder, a sudden intake of breath that he shouldn't need to take. Dean feels it as a twitch underneath his hands, as though it's something that stems from the tips of Castiel's fingers, and he wonders if it's something he's able to control.

Castiel doesn't say anything, doesn't reply.

The first press of Dean's lips is against Castiel's jawline and it's punctuated by the bulb in the lamp closest to them exploding like its been shot. There's a light ringing in Dean's ears, like something in the distance chiming, and he waits for it to settle before he slides his hands from Cas' arms to his waist. He slides fingers and palms underneath the white hem of the shirt, fabric bunching up against his wrists as he slides them upwards.

Castiel's skin is cool, unaffected by the warm summer night, and it's smooth underneath the calluses on his fingers. It's different because Castiel is different, because his borrowed body doesn't operate like it should. Dean doesn't feel warmth when they're this close, doesn't feel the radiation of heat from skin the way he does with most people, but he feels _something_. Something tense and wound up, like electricity crackling overhead, and he feels it in the air and on his skin and in every twitch of Castiel's body.

The tips of his fingers slide up Castiel's torso, across one, two, three ribs, and then back again to his waist. He leans in and brushes his lips against the soft edge of Castiel's ear and the tension in the air doesn't snap, but it _bends_. Castiel breathes in sharp, eyes strangely bright, and, when Dean slides a thigh in between his, makes a sound that Dean can't even hear.

Dean brushes his thumbs over Castiel's hipbones through his pants, pins his hips against the wall and leans in close enough to breath against his lips. He watches Castiel through half lidded eyes and he feels completely in control, until the angel's hand moves up to his shoulder, all five fingers digging into his shirt and skin, and his own breath hitches in his throat. He feels in control until Castiel gasps against him, whispers something in Enochian or Latin or something else entirely – and it sounds like something broken, haphazardly pieced back together – and it is as close to begging as he'll ever get.

His hips shift restlessly underneath Dean's grip, eyes glazed and bright, and Dean gives in.

Dean slides a knee in between them, fingers digging into slender hips, and kisses him hard enough to bruise.

The motel window shatters against the closed curtains.


End file.
